


Strike One

by ClaraxBarton



Series: Kinktober2019 [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry Sex, Baseball, Boston Red Sox, Established Relationship, Hate Sex, M/M, New York Yankees, Rivals, pitcher Bucky, pitcher Clint, very minor use of baseball terminology, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 15:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20950553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: It's like this:Clint Barton is an asshole and he's been an asshole ever since Bucky first played against him when they were eighteen and he hasn't changed at ALL in the nine years they've been rivals.Bucky hates him.





	Strike One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MistyDirtyInfiniteRoots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyDirtyInfiniteRoots/gifts).

> Kinktober Prompt: Hate sex/angry sex!
> 
> For rollinroots - who did not request this - this isn't THE baseball fic, but it is A baseball fic.  
That is, unless you WANT it to be THE baseball fic, in which case I have PLANS.
> 
> Now beta read by the amazing Ro!!

Two pitchers walked into a bar.

It wasn’t the start of a bad joke. Then again, maybe it was.

Because Bucky was at his usual spot in the back of Cornwall’s, nursing a pint of pumpkin ale - it was October, and therefore Halloween month, and  _ therefore _ the spooky gods had to be worshipped by sane people drinking and eating everything deliciously pumpkin-flavored they could get their hands on.

Because it was two hours after the second game of the American League Championship Series and the bar wasn’t crowded - part of why it was part of Bucky’s post-game routine - and there was  _ no reason in hell  _ the ace of the Yankees pitching staff should be in this bar, in  _ his _ bar, after that fucking game.

And yet. 

Clint Barton walked into the bar.

A bar that was a literal stone’s throw from Fenway Park.

Sure, he wasn’t wearing his uniform, wasn’t even wearing a Yankees hat or hoodie - but then, for all the  _ aw, shucks _ bullshit he gave the press, Clint Barton wasn’t an idiot and Bucky had never thought he was. 

But the guy the press had dubbed ‘Hawkeye’ for his intimidating as hell glare on the mound wasn’t exactly easy to miss. Especially not for Bucky. Not when Clint Barton already occupied so much of his waking and sleeping thoughts.

It wasn’t just that they played for rival teams - for  _ the _ rival teams. It wasn’t just that they were both ambidextrous pitchers in an age where those were few and far between. It wasn’t just that they’d come up the same season, three years ago, and been compared to each other stat for stat, game for game, ever since. It wasn’t just that they had been college rivals as well, Clint pitching for UCLA and Bucky for Stanford. 

It was the fact that Clint took in the bar in one casual sweep of his too-blue eyes and zeroed in on Bucky in his shadowy corner and smirked, and walked over and pulled up a chair as if Bucky had invited him.

It was the fact that Clint kept smirking even as he reached out and snagged a tater tot from Bucky’s plate and put it between his stupid, grinning lips and ate it in the most ridiculously suggestive way possible.

It was the fact that Clint stretched his legs out under the table and tangled them with Bucky’s and, if possible, smirked even more when Bucky didn’t pull away.

It was the fact that Clint picked up Bucky’s beer - his delicious, perfect pumpkin ale - took one sip and choked, and looked like the glass in his hand had just sucker-punched him.

“What in the actual fuck  _ is _ that?” Clint demanded, practically shoving the glass back into Bucky’s hands.

“Beer,” Bucky growled, and took a sip himself, of his own damn beer, and savored it.

“Sure, but why the fuck did someone decide to  _ pollute  _ it with pumpkin shit?”

Bucky glared at him. 

Clint Barton was a lot of things - a damn good pitcher, a good guy who spent hours signing autographs for kids, a guy who did so much volunteer and charity work that it boggled the mind, a guy who had abs the ancient Greeks might have used to teach Euclidean Geometry or something - but he was not a man of cultured taste. That was for sure.

Bucky smoothed his hand over his glass as he set it down, silently assuring the Halloween gods that he didn’t share Clint’s heathen opinions.

“Why don’t you get your own beer?” Bucky suggested. “Better yet, get your own  _ bar _ .”

Clint’s smirk was back, a little lopsided now, and his blue eyes were hot enough to sear Bucky.

“But you’re in this bar,” he said, reasonable and cocky as hell, and Bucky hated him.

Had hated him for years - for nine years, to be precise, ever since the first Stanford-UCLA game they had both pitched in.

“Fuck off,” Bucky growled. “Shouldn’t you be on your chartered jet back to New York?”

Clint rolled his shoulders in that annoyingly casual shrug he had that looked more like a stretch, as if he wasn’t bothered by anything, couldn’t be bothered by anything. Bucky had watched Clint get charged on the mound by a pinch-hitter who outweighed him by sixty pounds and wasn’t known for being a nice guy and had taken offense to Clint brushing him back from the plate by throwing strikes a little too close to the asshole’s face a few times and not look phased. To be fair, as soon as the hitter dropped his bat and swung a fist at Clint, Clint had punched the shit out of him, so… there hadn’t been a reason for him to be concerned, but still.

“Nah,” Clint said, and stole  _ another _ tater tot. “Tomorrow’s a travel day, and the game on Friday is a night game and I’m not pitching, so I don’t need to be there for the full warm-up… Plenty of time for me to relax. Maybe take in Boston. Play tourist. Wanna be my tour guide?”

Bucky glared. 

Clint grinned.

“Fuck you,” Bucky snapped.

Clint leaned across the table, stupidly long legs  _ still _ tangled with Bucky’s own.

“That’s exactly what I had in mind, babe,” Clint said.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat, and he knew that no amount of pumpkin ale would slake the sudden thirst he had now that he was looking into Clint’s eyes this close, now that that invitation was on the table.

Because the thing was, Bucky hated Clint. And Clint, for the last decade, seemed to return his hatred in equal measure.

But get them off the field? Especially just after a game? Especially when one or both of them or their teams had done some stupid shit - and Bucky definitely considered the Yankees putting Clint on the mound to close out the game and get the save when Clint was a  _ starting _ pitcher and had  _ just pitched the night before _ and  _ needed the fucking rest _ and  _ still _ fucking managed to pitch a scoreless, no-hit inning that secured the win for the  _ fucking Yankees, _ to be some very stupid shit.

In those circumstances, no amount of rivalry, no hate, was going to keep Bucky from getting his hands on Clint and getting Clint’s goddamn beautiful dick in his mouth, or fucking Clint’s perfect ass until Clint was begging him to come inside him, and sure, sure, it was hate-fucking. Monogamous hate-fucking. Bareback hate-fucking because Clint was a fucking asshole and had started to casually text Bucky the results of his quarterly STI check-ups three years ago, and of course Bucky had started to do the same because Clint was an  _ asshole _ .

It was a  _ decade _ of hate sex.

It was, outside of Bucky’s friendship with Steve Rogers, the longest relationship he had ever had.

Bucky glared at Clint.

“Get your ass in the bathroom. I’m gonna fuck you so hard I’ll have to carry you back to my apartment after this,” he threatened.

Clint licked his lips, snagged another fucking tater tot, and got to his feet.

He winked at Bucky and strolled, oh so casually, towards the bathroom.

Bucky took a too-large chug of his beer, coughed and told himself - not for the first time - that he was a fucking idiot.

He pulled out his wallet and left enough cash to cover his bill and tip, just in case things with Clint… went the way things with Clint always did.

And then he got to his feet and headed for the bathroom, ready to fuck the guy he hated the most, the guy he respected the most, the guy he maybe loved the most, in the entire American League.

-o-

  
  
  



End file.
